


Keep the Holly, Leave the Mistletoe

by 3fish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Christmas, Falling Castiel, Fluff, Fuckbuddies, Long-Suffering Sam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7748686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3fish/pseuds/3fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's… perfect," Cas mutters, glaring at the miniature people skating around the aluminum pond. </p>
<p>"Right?" Dean asks. He nudges fake snow further under the pines and begins to hum.  </p>
<p>Or: A war for the spirit of Christmas is waged. There are baking disasters, snowball fights, and ruined eggnog. There might even be feelings involved. Maybe. Just don't ask Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep the Holly, Leave the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> For B.

The problem with Christmas, Dean thinks, wiping at the egg yolk spattered across the floor, isn't the consumerism or the incessant holiday music or the hiked gas prices. No, the problem with Christmas is that—

"Would you _quit it_  about the eggnog already?" Cas asks, glaring at Dean from where he's perched on the counter, mopping the side of the cabinet.

"I didn't even say anything," Dean protests, throwing his arms in the air. Something flies off his rag to land with a soft _plop_  on the other side of the room. "All I'm saying is that—"

Cas cuts him off. "That Christmas is a human affair? That angels are only good for sitting at the top of the tree? Christmas," Cas declares, pointing the mop like it's some kind of divine scepter, "is for everyone."

"All I'm saying," Dean starts again, louder to dispel any ideas Cas might have of continuing his rant, "is that maybe you should leave the eggnog-making to people who know what they're doing." As if to punctuate his point, a blob of yolk drips off the ceiling.

Cas hops off the counter, and Dean grabs him to keep him from overbalancing on the slick floor. The mop hits the ground with a wet thump followed by a clatter, and Cas pokes him in the chest with his newly freed hand.

"You want Christmas?" Cas hisses, mouth right up next to Dean's, and Sam's going to kill them for doing this in the kitchen but—

"I'll show you Christmas," Cas finishes, and then he's got Dean's lower lip between his teeth and Dean's yanking Cas' ridiculous trench coat off his shoulders, and look. It's not Dean's fault that Cas, all lit up with anger, really gets him going.

Dean's back hits the refrigerator with a thump, scattering those stupid alphabet magnets Sam likes so much, and they have to be quick because Sam's only making a beer run.

Cas grabs Dean's wrist, eyes lidded, and Dean cracks his head off the freezer as Cas slides that pink, pink mouth down on Dean's fingers, clever tongue curled around his knuckles. It should be disgusting—there's raw egg everywhere—but Cas is fumbling with Dean's pants and Dean can't focus beyond the abstract smear of their failed attempt at eggnog still stuck to the ceiling.

He maybe whites out for a little bit.

Dean comes back to Cas releasing his fingers with a soft nip, holding Dean's gaze as he folds down to his knees and—

"Oh my _god_ ," Sam yells. "The kitchen? We eat in here!"

The problem with Christmas, Dean thinks later, sprawled out next to Cas who still smells faintly of antiseptic from Sam making them deep-clean the kitchen, is that Christmas is too much, too _human_ , to be ignored, let alone by an almost-fallen angel.

Dean sighs and settles his arm more firmly around Cas' waist since human contact seems to help with the nightmares. If they make it through the holiday season without strangling each other with garland, it'll be a fucking miracle.

 

* * *

 

Dean stumbles out of bed at ass o'clock in the morning, picking through the disarray of hastily shed clothes from last night before finally pulling on a pair of boxers he's fairly certain are his. Okay, sixty percent sure, whatever.

His alarm hasn't sounded yet, and it's only as he's leaning across the bed to turn it off that he realizes Cas is still here. Cas sleeping with him is nothing new, but sticking around for morning-afters? He must have been wiped.

Dean drags the blanket down over Cas' feet because Cas as a human has awful circulation and he doesn't want to spend all day hearing about how cold they are. Then he shuffles into his slippers and heads towards the smell of coffee.

There's a mug already waiting for him, and Sam is working on a crossword at the newly disinfected, I-don't-care-if-you-didn't-touch-it-you're-cleaning-it-anyways table. Beside him are those weird vegan donuts he likes, so Sam must have been at the farmer's market this morning buying all sorts of horrible greenery.

Dean eyes the donuts skeptically, but he knows exactly what they have foodwise, and if he doesn't want to eat raw flour, this is it for breakfast. He grabs the only apple one because they taste the least like recycled cardboard and slides into the seat opposite Sam.

"So," Sam asks, not even looking up from the paper. "What are you getting Cas for Christmas?"

Dean snorts, wrapping his robe tighter against the chill of morning. "Who says I'm getting him anything?"

"Well," Sam drawls, and it's too fucking early for this, god. It's always too early for Sam's relationship bullshit. "When two people love each other very much—" Sam doesn't even cut off that sentence when Dean nails his donut at Sam's head "—and ignore common courtesy by expressing that love in _communal eating spaces_ …"

Dean groans, and Sam manages to simultaneously smirk and glare as he takes a bite out of the donut. Of course he'd caught it—Sam's got arms like a chimpanzee. Now Dean's confronted with the double indignity of watching Sam eat his breakfast and listening to him harp.

"Jesus, drop it. We're just friends." Sam snorts. "Fine," Dean allows, "friends who help each other out sometimes. It's not that hard to wrap your head around."

Sam opens his mouth, and ew, Dean did not need to see what that sacrilegious vegan donut looked like half-chewed. "In fact," he continues before Sam can get a word in edgewise, tipping his chair back onto two legs. "I've already picked out a present." Sam perks up, seemingly despite himself. "I chose it with love and care, and I really think that it shows the extent of our relationship."

"If you didn't want to talk about it you could have just—"

"My dick," Dean concludes. "In a box. Because we aren't boyfriends, Sam. It's just sex."

Sam's eyes are focused behind Dean, and he knows even before Sam says, "Morning, Cas," who just walked into the room.

"Sam," Cas nods, his voice deeper than usual, still thick with sleep. He's wearing Dean's shirt, and… yes. Also Dean's boxers. Dammit, he knew he should have taken the other pair.

Cas trails a hand across Dean's shoulders in greeting as he makes his way towards the coffee, and Dean carefully doesn't look at Sam.

"So, Cas," Sam starts, and Cas turns his attention away from the sugar he's spooning into his mug. "Are you getting Dean something for Christmas?"

Dammit, Sam.

Cas doesn't even stop to think about it. "Of course. Why wouldn't I? Just because I'm not human, strictly speaking, doesn't mean I can't understand the emotions surrounding the season." And oh, that was _not_  what Dean said.

"Though I'm not extremely familiar with current holiday norms," Cas continues, "I'm sure I'm perfectly capable of celebrating Christmas like everyone else." He locks eyes with Dean. "Better, even. Besides," he says, "it's tradition. Even I know that."

Sam, for once, is clearly at a loss for words.

Cas serenely takes a sip from his mug and scratches at his stubble, which he still hasn't gotten the hang of shaving. The tilt of his neck makes his hickeys very apparent, and Dean simultaneously wants to drag him back to bed and smack him for thinking that Christmas is a competition. Scratch that—for thinking that Christmas is a competition that he can _win_ _._

But… this is the first time Dean has seen Cas so animated since he started falling. It can't hurt to play along.

"No offence, Cas, but even if Winchester Christmases will never meet Hallmark standards, I'm pretty sure they've still got yours beat. You want to go all-out for Christmas?" He lets his chair drop back onto four legs and bares his teeth. "Bring it. Sam, you in?"

Sam coughs. "Leave me out of your weird sex games. Please."

"They're not—"

"Good," Cas interrupts. "We need someone to keep score, anyways." Cas meets Dean's gaze, very deliberately sets the mug down on the counter, and says, "If you'll excuse me, I have some holiday spirit to manufacture." He sweeps out of the room, his poise at odds with the fuzzy socks he's wearing.

"Were you letting him watch Christmas specials again," Dean asks, and Sam doesn't say a word, just gives him a look that conveys 'you're such an idiot' without even opening his mouth. If the table weren't so wide, Dean would smack him upside the head. As it is, he settles for stealing the last of the walnut donuts out of spite and heads towards his room.

If Cas thinks he's going to go easy on him just because they're fucking, he's got another thing coming. If they really are going to see who's got the most Christmas spirit, Dean plans on winning, and he knows just the thing to give him a leg up.

 

* * *

 

Twenty-six boxes, two mice nests, and one coughing fit from the time Dean climbs the rickety ladder into the attic, he finds the strands of lights.

"Finally," he mutters, rubbing the welt on his shin from where he'd tripped over a crate full of recipe books from the forties. The last time he was up here was during Sam's short-lived kick to organize this junk. He only remembered the lights because they reminded him of how Mom used to love decorating for Christmas.

Shaking himself out of the tangled memories of home and loss, Dean jostles the flashlight and the wavering beam brightens considerably. The sudden increase of light catches a couple of cellar spiders fleeing across the dusty floor, their bodies like coordinated tumbleweeds.

"You better run," Dean mutters to himself as he shoves the top off the crate. The lid thumps heavily to the floor, raising a cloud of dust right where the spiders were a moment before.

The box isn't wide but it is deep, and when Dean peers over the edge, keeping his hands free of the rough wood, a tangle of wires greets him. That's… unpromising, but he can work with this. Christmas spirit is not deterred by things like jumbled wires.

Interspersed among the twists he can see colored bulbs, the kind people put on outdoor pines, but that's not what he's looking for. There should also be…

"Aha!" Dean crows. There, nestled in the middle of the pile, are little figurine lights. There's a Santa and an oddly colored peacock and either a monkey or the strangest dog ever, but it doesn't really matter what they _are_. The fact is that they're awesome and obviously better than anything Cas can come up with.

Dean grips the flashlight between his teeth. Craning his head at an awkward angle so that he has enough light to work by, he tries pulling the figurine strand out from the rest of the mess. The entire bundle of wires comes with it. Firming his grip on the unwieldy mass, he shakes it. Besides the sound of bulbs clattering faintly against each other, nothing happens. He shakes harder. The end of a plug flies up and bounces off his forehead.

"For the love of—" Dean starts, muffled around the flashlight, and drops the entire thing. Instead of fitting back into the box, the wire snarl has somehow _expanded_ , morphing into an even larger tangle like some malevolent bramble bush.

"What," Dean starts, and then the flashlight dies.

Rattling it does nothing, and neither does smacking the base a couple of times against the palm of his hand. Dean aims a kick at the box, remembering only after he connects that he's not wearing his customary boots but slippers Sam gave him last year. The realization does nothing to ease the shooting pain in his toes.

Store-bought lights, he thinks as he curses, are looking pretty good right now.

He's come too far to admit defeat, so Dean sucks it up, gathers the entire bundle of lights into his arms, and commences stumbling towards where he thinks the door is. If he barks his shin on _yet another_  storage box, well. It'll all be worth it in the end.

 

* * *

 

Cas interrupts him as he's fighting to untangle the figurine strand from the rest of the mess.

"Dean? Can I come in?" he asks, tapping on the door. It's too much trouble to crawl back under the bed to reach the outlet, so Dean throws a blanket over the lights instead of unplugging them. It should work—he doesn't want Cas getting any ideas.

"Miss me already?" Dean asks, pulling the door open. Cas winces at his voice, and oh. "Hey," Dean says, softer.

"I just… sorry." Cas looks like he's going to try to leave so that he doesn't inconvenience Dean or something, and that's just ridiculous. Dean lived through Sam as a tween—he can manage a friend with angelically-powered migraines.

Dean grabs Cas by the shoulder and steers him into the room, all the while Cas is saying, "I know you're busy. I can go back—"

Dean cuts him off with a kiss, cradling Cas' head as he walks him back towards the bed. "Don't be an idiot," he murmurs. "C'mon."

Perched on the still-rumpled bedspread, Cas obediently lifts his feet so Dean can take off his shoes, raises his arms to let Dean pull off his shirt, and allows himself to be guided down onto his stomach. The skin around his eyes is tensed in pain, and Dean flips off the overhead, leaving them in a not-so-oppressive darkness.

The strand of lights, he realizes, is still visible even through the blanket. Guess that cat's out of the bag.

"How bad," he asks, straddling Cas so that his knees are pressed against the vulnerable stretch of skin below Cas' ribs. Even through his pants, Dean can feel the heat from Cas' body. For all that he complains about being cold, Cas functions like he's part furnace.

Dean sets the heels of his hands against the corded muscles of Cas' back and presses down.

"Not," Cas breaths in sharply as Dean moves higher, sweeping his thumbs against the base of his neck. "Not too bad."

"Sure," Dean says agreeably, and sets to work in earnest.

"You sure you're up to all of this Christmas cheer?" Dean asks a while later, digging his fingers into a particularly stubborn knot and ignoring the way Cas twists beneath him.

"Why," Cas asks after a delay, the tension seeping out of him as Dean uses his leverage to press down harder. "You need to tap out already?"

Dean doesn't respond right away, just strokes the curve of Cas' neck to hear him sigh. "Yeah," he say, quiet enough that he doubts Cas can hear him. "That's exactly it."

Cas is boneless under him, stretched out and worn thin. There's no use working on the lights when it could interrupt what little undisturbed sleep Cas manages to get, so Dean just stretches out next to him. He'll just rest his eyes for a minute. Just a minute. Just…

It's pitch black when Dean wakes up, disoriented. His alarm clock shows that it's only been an hour or so, and reaching out a hand he encounters nothing but a patch of blankets that's still slightly warm. Fumbling with the lamp, Dean squints at the sudden brightness and rolls out of bed.

Approaching the crumpled blanket on the floor, Dean goes to unveil the lights and realizes there's no soft, muted glow showing through. The lights, he sees as he flips the covering off, are out. Fuck.

They were working just fine a while ago, he thinks as he jiggles the wire and taps the bulbs. It's still plugged in and the fuse box can't have been acting up again since his lamp is still working. Nothing's changed except—

"Cas," he mutters as he finds an empty socket. "That little…" thieving, underhanded, cunning, brilliant " _sneak_ ," he breathes admiringly. Obviously Cas saw a chance and took it. Playtime is officially over.

"This," he declares, looking down at the dark faces of the figurine lights. "This means war."

"You know what," Sam says from the doorway. "I don't even want to know."

 

* * *

 

Cas didn't sabotage anything else, probably because Dean could replace the regular missing bulbs with lights from another strand, so while Dean balances precariously on a chair, winding lights through the metal slats of the main staircase's railing, he plans.

Cas will be on the lookout for retaliation, but if he thinks Dean doesn't know Cas sabotaged his lights, if Dean acts like there's nothing unusual going on… Dean can feel the smile spreading involuntarily across his face. Yeah, he thinks, nearly overbalancing for the third time and jamming his finger against the railing. That'll work.

"Everyone see the lights I put up?" Dean asks, walking into the kitchen.

Cas has been baking up a storm by the looks of it, the scent of chocolate in the air, flour spilled across the counter and accumulating on the floor. Sam's leaning against the wall, trying not to look like he's waiting for a moment of inattention to steal some of whatever Cas is icing. That mooch.

"The wiring was a little wonky on one," Dean adds, "but I'm pretty sure the ones I put up shouldn't cause any problems."

Cas turns around, a smudge of green icing high on his cheek, and nods, all serious. Faker. At least it looks like his migraine's gone, otherwise he'd probably still be in Dean's bed. Dean carefully shakes that thought away.

"How're the festivities coming?" he continues. "Find the true meaning of the season yet?"

"I don't know Dean," Sam says, smirking around half of a pumpkin cookie. "I think he's beating you so far." Dean glares, but Cas blocks his sightline by pulling a baking sheet out of the refrigerator, the cookie dough already balled.

Cas bends over further than Dean thinks is strictly necessary to put it in the oven, and Dean can't help but admire the curve of his ass in those pants. Cas does a little shimmy as he pushes the tray in, and maybe Dean's mouth goes dry. Sam notices his gaze and chokes on crumbs.

Dean sidles closer to the counter to see what Cas has been working on, and it looks like Cas is icing gingerbread men. The colors are running everywhere, but… is that him and Sam? It must be, look at that hair. And that blob is probably Cas, tie and all. Dean feels guilty for a split second before his bruised shin gives a throb. No, he thinks. Cas had this coming to him.

"These look good," he says. "Are they ready to eat?"

Cas smacks his hand away. "No, I'm still icing them. Don't," he glares as Sam reaches to break off a piece of gingerbread-Dean's leg. "Just—go sit at the table. Stop hovering, you're making me mess up." Dean doesn't say a thing about how gingerbread-Sam's pants are bleeding into his hands. "Besides," and there's that little smirk, the one that says Cas thinks he's already won. "Gingerbread is traditional."

"Fine," Dean says. "Wouldn't want to rush greatness," and brushes his thumb across Cas' cheek to wipe away the icing.

Sam sighs, breaking his focus. "I can never tell if you guys do this on purpose or not."

"Table, Sammy," he says, clapping Sam on the shoulder and discretely wiping off the icing. "Leave the chef to his kitchen."

 

* * *

 

After the milk has been poured, the Christmas china set out, and the gingerbread men—sorry Sam, gingerbread _people_ —neatly arranged, it's Sam who takes the first bite. Dean gets a glimpse of his comically betrayed expression before he spits it out.

"Sam," Dean admonishes, trying to keep a straight face. "Don't do that in front of Cas, thought I raised you better than that."

Cas stares at the half-pulped mass of gingerbread lying on the table, looks at Sam gargling his milk, and turns to Dean. Dean doesn't say a word, just lets his smile spread across his face Cheshire Cat style.

Without a word, Cas picks up the platter of cookies, walks over to the trashcan, and dumps them in, never breaking eye contact. It is, Dean has to admit, an impressive amount of coordination.

"Cas," he says, feigning surprise even though he knows the gig is up. "What'd you do that for? And they were iced so well, right Sam?" Sam shoots him venomous look from across the table and Dean tucks his legs out of kicking range.

Cas glares at him, eyes alight, and Dean shifts for an entirely different reason. With a sharp turn on his heel, Cas starts for the kitchen, trench coat flapping dramatically behind him. Now that, Dean thinks, is an _exit_.

"You know," Sam comments over the sudden clatter of pots and pans. "I'm not sure what's worse. Eating that or having to deal with your extended foreplay."

"Shut up," mutters Dean, swinging his leg out in Sam's general direction. All he manages to do is kick the table leg with his bruised foot. He tries to turn his wince into a look of distain, but considering Sam's unimpressed face, he must not manage it.

"And it's not foreplay," he adds belatedly.

"Just out of curiosity, what did you put in here? Hot sauce?" Sam takes Dean's silence as his answer. "Swear to god," he mutters, taking another swig of milk. "And don't," he holds up a finger, "tell me how you did it. I want no part in this."

The clatter of pans stops. Cas must be going through the cabinets now, judging by the slamming. It he had time, Dean would have done something to the oven, but as it is…

There's a muffled curse, then the sound of something heavy tipping over accompanied by a noise like sand trickling out of an hourglass. The cursing intensifies.

"You didn't," Sam says.

"Oh," Dean grins. "But I did. A man does not let the mishandling of his lights go unpunished, Sam."

"That's… okay. Not even going there. And I'm not cleaning that up, you hear me? Dean." Dean bets Cas' eyes are on fire now, can almost see his pinched mouth, that little tilt of his head, the way that strong jaw, that strong bitable _lickable_  jaw—

"Hey, hey!" Sam's snapping his fingers in front of Dean's face, a stupid habit he picked up during his Stanford years and has never quite shaken. "Focus! Also, if you have sex in the kitchen again I swear to god I'll fill up the Impala with unleaded."

That at least gets Dean's attention. "You wouldn't."

"Keep it out of the food preparation area and you won't have to find out," Sam replies grimly.

There's one final resounding clatter and then Cas stomps out of the kitchen on a cloud of icy calm, sugar crystals from the rigged bag glittering in his hair. Just like Dean imagined, his eyes are practically alight and a muscle in his jaw is ticking. Dean raises his glass in a salute.

Cas swans by smelling strongly of cookies. There isn't a door to slam, but if there were Dean's sure it would be rattling on its hinges. He can't help but stare after him.

"Dean. Dean! For the love of god," Sam mutters, flicking at the remainder of his gingerbread man. "So much worse."

The sex, Dean thinks, is going to be fucking  _phenomenal_.

 

* * *

 

"I can't believe you put—yeah, right there—hot sauce in my—fuck—in my cookies." Dean tightens his hold on Cas' thigh, hitching it higher just to hear Cas' nagging break off in a moan. Cas claws his back, and a couple of periodicals go tumbling to the floor.

"You stole my light first," he grunts, pressing Cas harder against the shelf and causing a few more volumes to slide out the opposite side. "You asked for it." Cas bites at his jaw when he changes the angle and practically _writhes_  against him. That's the last of the talking for a while.

Afterwards, when the books have been re-shelved, pages bent back into shape, and one hopefully replaceable periodical thrown away, the library is back in immaculate order. Dean heads to the kitchen for a glass of water and finds Sam at the table reading something that looks ancient and non-English.

"So," Sam asks, not even looking up from his text. "Was he the naughty librarian or were you? Never mind," he continues, flipping a page. "I don't want to know."

 

* * *

 

Cas hadn't come to bed last night, but that's not unusual. It's not like they're attached at the hip, no matter what Sam says. But, when Dean walks into the main room of the bunker that morning to find a literal explosion of paper, he has a feeling that whatever Cas was up to last night, sleep didn't have anything to do with it.

There are paper snowflakes on the walls, paper snowflakes strung from the ceiling, even paper snowflakes dangling from the staircase railing. And sitting in the middle of it all, scissors working furiously, is Cas.

"What," Dean starts, and doesn't have the slightest idea what to follow that up with. Where did they even _get_  all this paper from? Scratch that, who taught Cas how to cut out snowflakes? And more importantly, why didn't he think of that first?

Sam walks up behind him, takes one look, and slaps a hand over his eyes. " _Again?_  You have your own rooms!"

Okay, now that's just rude. Everyone's wearing clothes, and he and Cas aren't anywhere near each other! They can be alone together without having sex.

"Dammit, it's—Sam, it's not—it's not a sex thing! It's Christmas!"

Sam cautiously removes his hand. "Yeah, no," he says, eyeing the trails of snowflakes scattered across every vertical surface in the room. "I can see that now. It's just," he waves his arms as if to encompass the whole of their activities and narrowly avoids getting his hand caught in a piece of garland dangling from the ceiling. How did Cas even get _up_  there? "What?" Sam finishes weakly.

"Winter is coming," Cas says, expertly folding another piece of paper.

Dean looks at Sam. "Did he just quote _Game of Thrones_?" He turns back to Cas. "Did you just quote _Game of Thrones_?"

Cas holds his gaze, wielding his scissors for punctuation. "Winter." _Snip_ _._ "Is." _Snip_ _._ "Coming." _Snip_ _._ He unfurls the snowflake with a sharp snap of his wrist, and it looks like Dean won't be getting his morning coffee after all. He's got work to do.

 

* * *

 

"It's… perfect," Cas mutters, and glares at the miniature people skating around the aluminum pond.

"Right?" Dean smirks, adjusting the positioning of the ceramic cottage. "One hundred percent de-cursed, holiday appropriate cheer. Too bad you couldn't find the key to the storage room when you were looking for it the other day."

Dean nudges fake snow further under the miniature pines and begins to hum.

 

* * *

 

Cas hangs mistletoe in every room of the bunker, but since that works out equally well for the both of them, Dean calls that one a draw.

 

* * *

 

There's a clatter from the hallway, followed by the distinctive sound of glass breaking. Sam starts swearing up a blue streak. "Why the fuck were there ornaments in the closet?"

Dean rounds the corner to find Sam's picked up a hitchhiker—a shiny gold bauble caught in his hair from the ornament landslide.

"You," he points to Dean, then Cas who's just shown up. The ornament swings wildly as he gestures, mesmerizing. Dean presses his lips together.

Cas opens his mouth, motioning vaguely, but Sam cuts him off. "No, I don't care who did it. I just want—Dean this _isn't funny_ _._ "

 

* * *

 

The gingerbread house could more accurately be described as a gingerbread _palace_  judging by the turrets, archways, and gumdrop bell tower.

"Strawberry?" Cas offers, eyebrow arched. At Dean's deferral he shrugs and dips the berry in the moat filled with chocolate sauce. "Suit yourself."

 

* * *

 

"That won't even work!" Sam protests, throwing his hands in the air like he's on some sitcom.

"Don't be a scrooge, Sam." Dean says, rattling the folded pieces of paper inside the hat. "Pick a damn name. Secret Santa's traditional."

Sam groans. "Not you too. Fine, whatever. But just how do you think this is going to work? There are three of us, so…" Dean rattles the hat aggressively, and even though Dean's totally getting credit for this, Cas looks pretty invested in the proceedings.

"You know what, fine." Sam says, grabbing one of the slips of paper. "Oh hey, would you look at that, it's me. Now, what I want is for you to stop trying to _out-Christmas_  each other. Oh, and a food processor."

Cas leans towards Dean and says in a perfectly audible whisper, "Does he know that you're not supposed to tell who you got?"

 

* * *

 

There's mud tracked through the bunker, but Dean will get up to clean it in a minute. Anyways, the freshly cut pine wreaths look festive enough that he thinks it's a fair trade. His only regret is letting Cas touch them before dragging Dean to bed. There are some places that sap should never, ever be.

 

* * *

 

Sam's been complaining about global warming for the past three weeks, so Dean feels completely justified in laying the blame on him when the polar vortex rolls through.

"I didn't _make_  the blizzard happen, I can't control weather patterns. And besides, it all has to do with the Gulf Stream and—" Dean tunes him out because trying to stop Sam on one of his geek rants is pretty much impossible.

There's a shock of cold as something hits the side of his face and crumbles, and Dean stops going for a weapon at Sam's laughter.

Wiping snow off his eyebrow, Dean catches a glimpse of Cas wearing what looks like the entirety of his wardrobe before he lobs another snowball. Sam's laughter dissolves into a sputter under a shower of snow, and oh, it's on. Sam and Dean share a look before dashing for their coats. Nobody does snowball fights like the Winchesters.

After a decisive battle which included a makeshift snowball slingshot, a dug-in trench, and a double-cross when Dean shoved snow down the back of Sam's jacket, much to Sam's displeasure, they call a truce.

On his back, the crackle of compacted snow is loud in his ears, and breathing deeply he can smell how cold it is, air sharp and crisp in his lungs. Beside him Cas rolls over and starts languidly dragging his arms back and forth. He's making a snow angel, Dean realizes, and his chest feels like that Grinch in the movie Sam made them watch last night, too small to contain this tangled ball of emotions.

Cas still doesn't talk about falling.

After a minute Cas levers himself upright, crushing a bit of his wing. He stands there, haloed against the opaque grayness of the sky, taking in the way the snow holds his shape, the pressed wrinkles of his clothing. Then he turns and offers Dean a hand up.

Dean takes it.

Standing this close together, Dean can hear how Cas' teeth are chattering, and he should have _said_  something, the stoic martyr. "Here," he offers, already unwinding his scarf and brushing off the snow. "Let me."

Cas gives a token protest but holds still as Dean wraps the fabric around his neck. There are snow crystals melting in his eyelashes, and his eyes look so, so blue in the light reflecting off the snow. Dean can't feel Cas' skin under the heavy wool of his gloves, but he can imagine.

The scarf is all tucked in but Cas still hasn't moved away, looking at Dean like he's searching for some kind of answer, and Dean's gaze falls to his lips. He could just lean in, right here, no need to take this any further and… and just…

And Sam interrupts the moment. "Anybody want to build snowpeople? Oh."

Dean closes his eyes and it takes a conscious effort to step back from Cas. "I think it might be time for cocoa instead," he says, trying to modulate his tone. "Wouldn't want Cas to start losing fingers."

"I'll go start the water," Cas says, and Dean can't place his tone before he turns on his heel and heads towards the bunker, the red of Dean's scarf a vivid contrast to the whiteness surrounding them.

"Just sex, huh?" Sam murmurs as they watch Cas match his steps to the footprints they'd left earlier, and Dean doesn't bother dignifying that with a response.

 

* * *

 

There's no way Dean's driving somewhere and letting the Impala get all scratched up bringing a tree back to the bunker, let alone whatever scraggly rejects are left this close to Christmas. The artificial one he found while searching for Cas' stash of hidden ornaments last week will have to do.

The tree weighs about as much as a baby elephant, all neon green piping and wire branches. Dragging it down a flight of stairs was the easy part Dean realizes as yet another spring-loaded branch smacks him in the face.

"Sam," he calls, spitting out tinsel bristles. "Get me a bungee cord, will you?" Another branch unwinds with great velocity and cracks against Dean's forearm. "Son of a—" The top of the tree creaks ominously. "Sam!"

"Your brother's out at the store."

Dean cranes his neck and sees the toes of Cas' striped socks wiggling at him. He scoots back and executes a decisive roll out from under the tree, narrowly avoiding the entire front side collapsing on him.

Cas looks at the mess of overly bright greenery. "I don't think it's supposed to do that."

"No kidding," says Dean. "But we don't have much of a choice. It's not like I can magic one out of thin air." Cas' face takes on a mulish slant, and Dean knows where this is going before he even opens his mouth. "Don’t—"

"I'm not entirely useless," Cas snaps, and that wasn't what Dean was saying at all. Cas closes his eyes and Dean can _see_  him reach for where his grace used to be. The color drains out of Cas' face and he lists towards the right.

Dean catches him before he hits the ground.

It's not that Cas doesn't still have some of his powers, it's just that they're sporadic at best. And at worst…

"Hey. Hey!" Dean slaps him lightly and Cas' eyes flicker back open. Dean sucks in a breath. He can feel the rapid turnover of his heart beating in his throat.

Cas meets his gaze and his face crumples. "I was just…" he starts, and he looks so lost that Dean can't bear it. He just wants to tuck Cas up and keep him safe, regardless of the fact that Cas is capable of being just as dangerous as Dean when he needs to be.

"Hey." He runs a hand through Cas' hair, and when had his hands started shaking? "It's okay. I get it."

They sit on the floor for a while until Cas stops trembling and his head on Dean's shoulder gets heavy enough that Dean tips them over onto the tree skirt he'd brought down from the attic. The tree creaks as if in warning, but Cas is dead to the world.

By the time Sam gets back Dean's eyes are closed. He can hear the footsteps pause as Sam stops to take in the half-toppled tree and the two of them curled up together. Dean knows what it looks like and waits for some kind of outburst, but Sam walks away without saying a word.

A couple of minutes later he's back, walking quietly. Dean almost startles when he feels something drape over them, but it's just a quilt, soft and cool and smelling like the herbal tea that Sam loves so much.

Dean curls closer to Cas and relaxes for what feels like the first time in days, and Sam flicks the lights off as he leaves. Dean's last thought before dropping off is that he hopes the combination of body heat and softly glowing light will be enough to keep Cas' nightmares at bay, if just for tonight.

 

* * *

 

They don't talk about it in the morning, but Dean can't shake the feeling that something's changed, has _been_  changing, and he's just now noticing. It feels almost like the summer of '98, that first time he'd realized that Sam was actually taller than him. There's that same sharp lurch of something he'd taken for granted, the inevitable spin of their lives, being revealed as dynamic instead of static. Maybe not better or worse, just… different.

"Pass the tape, will you?" Sam asks, and Dean fumbles for where he'd left it under the drift of loose tissue paper courtesy of Cas. "You know," Sam says while Dean starts picking through boxes, "usually thoughtful gifts indicate some kind of relationship."

"We're not boyfriends," Dean groans, and if the words feel strange in his mouth, not false but also not quite true, it's probably just indigestion from the weird eggnog Cas made yesterday. He chucks the tape roll at Sam's head. "I've told you, just friends."

"Cas is my friend too and I don't do the things that you do with him."

Dean can't help the smirk that slides across his face, and he slices through another piece of wrapping paper. "That's 'cause you're a prude, Sammy. Now, hand me that ribbon."

 

* * *

 

They drag the phonograph into the main room on Christmas Eve and Sam produces a record of old Christmas tunes that the Men of Letters stored in the library. It's all barbershop quartets and slow dances, but Dean can suck it up, if just for tonight.

The presents are arranged under the tree—Cas' held together with too much tape and overlaid with ribbons where he'd misjudged the size paper he needed.

Sam flicks the lights off and the room is illuminated by the bulbs that Dean had strung through the railings, Cas' paper snowflakes turned a kaleidoscope of colors. A group starts singing about true love at Christmas time, and Sam looks like it's physically paining him to not say whatever's on his mind.

Cas smiles at Dean, bright and beautiful, and Dean can feel his breath hitch. Huh. Maybe there's something here after all. Sam gives a flimsy excuse about needing something from the basement, leaving Dean and Cas alone in what may be the most unsubtle move Dean's ever seen.

Sam obviously thinks they're going to have a heart-to-heart, discuss their undying love while they hold hands in the semi-darkness, let their emotions be moved by the Christmas spirit, and maybe they should talk. Maybe there's something to this boyfriends thing Sam is always harping on about. Maybe, but not right now. Right now, with Cas looking like that and Sam gone for at least half an hour…

"Wanna fuck me under the tree?" Dean asks, and Cas' grin runs through him like lightning.

"Thought you'd never ask."

They haven't crushed any present or collapsed the tree, so when Sam walks in on them there's really no excuse for the way that he starts pulling at his hair. Dean's still got his shirt on even if it's unbuttoned, and Cas' tie and briefs are… mostly on. Plus those stupid socks which are practically glued to Cas' feet.

"For the love of god," Sam says. "I give up. Neither of you wins Christmas." He kicks Dean's pants off where they'd been covering up one the presents that Sam had wrapped, and rips it open right there. Dropping the paper to the floor, Sam puts in a pair of ear plugs and walks out without saying another word.

Dean can feel Cas' grin against where he'd been sucking hickeys into his neck. "Wanna see how loud you can get?" The record ends, making the space between them feels that much more charged, and Dean arches, feeling as content as he's ever been.

Cas is on top of him, the heat of his eyes amplified in the glow of the colored lights, his hands roaming over Dean's body. Pulling Cas in with his tie, Dean drags his mouth up the line of Cas' jaw, hisses, "Bring it," right against his lips, and kisses him.

Everything else can wait for tomorrow.


End file.
